


Knockin' On Heaven's Door

by jagnikjen



Series: The Chronicles of Blake Moran [6]
Category: Madam Secretary
Genre: Blake has a hot hockey boyfriend, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10799373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jagnikjen/pseuds/jagnikjen
Summary: Missing scene from season three episode "Good Bones"--The sight of those dead women and girls affects Blake, and there’s no way he’s going home to an empty apartment to watch that truck door roll open again and again.





	Knockin' On Heaven's Door

**Author's Note:**

> The episode aired 04.09.17, so I chose to set this fic on Monday the 10th, mostly because the Washington Capitals (the real hockey team my fictional player plays for) played their last regular season game on the 9th and the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs didn't start for a few days, so it worked for the purposes of the fic.

Blake has never been so glad to leave the Truman Building. The night is clear and cool. A crisp breeze whirls around. The moon is bright, though barely above the tree line at this point. The lights of DC sparkle in the late evening, and it really is a picturesque evening.

But try as he might, he can’t get the image of those poor girls out of his mind. The thought of going home to his empty apartment makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t want to be alone. He gets in his car and drives and it’s no surprise that, when he finally notes his destination, he’s driving past Oliver’s brownstone. He parks and hurries up the concrete stairs.

Blake pounds on Oliver’s front door. Thank God the hockey season’s over. It’s just after eleven and, he needs Oliver like right now. Needs to see him, touch him, hear his lilting voice. The buzzer can be heard through the door; he leans on the button again.

Like a hummingbird’s wings, his heart thrums in his chest, his breathing comes in shallow drafts.

And, God—where the heck is Oliver? Surely he’s not asleep. He’s up later than this every night that he plays. Granted he’s got a few days break before the playoffs begin, but still.

Blake pulls out his phone, and it takes two tries to swipe it unlocked, his hands are trembling so much. He cusses through a couple of pokes to open his contacts and hit Oliver’s name.

And shit—Oliver’s going to the playoffs. He needs his rest. Blake shouldn’t bother him. He’ll just go to a bar and get shit-faced drunk, call an Uber, and go home alone. He disconnects the call and turns to go.

The door flies open, halting Blake’s flight.

Oliver’s standing there looking startled and sleep rumpled. “Blake. What are you doing here?” 

Blake steps inside and into Oliver’s arms. “Thank, God,” he says into Oliver’s shoulder.

Oliver’s warm arms fold him close, one hand cups his head, the other curves along his shoulder. “My Blake, what’s wrong?”

Oliver’s tee shirt smells like Oliver and fabric softener and the barest hint of cologne. Blake breathes deep, clutching the soft cotton at Oliver’s waist. Hearing his voice eases some of Blake’s misery. “Hold me.”

Oliver shuffles backwards, Blake in his arms, and pushes the door closed.

“Are you all right? What happened? Are you hurt?”

“No, sorry, I’m okay. It’s work, and I just—” And he can’t. Not yet. He looks at Oliver.

The foyer is lit by the light at the top of the staircase, throwing Oliver’s eyes into shadow, but, light or no light, Blake knows this face by heart. Tropical lagoon blue eyes, blondish hair, facial scruff that’s got a reddish tint to it and is longer than normal—Oliver’s started growing out his playoff beard. His sweet smile.

Despite the violence of the sport he plays, he’s got a gentle demeanor off the ice.

“Tea or cocoa?” Oliver asks. He knows how to comfort Blake. Which is why Blake’s here.

“Definitely a cocoa night.”

“Go upstairs, get changed. I’ll bring the cocoa.”

Oliver presses a gentle kiss to Blake’s forehead and lips, squeezes a shoulder, and nudges him to the staircase.

Blake trudges up the stairs, untying his tie and releasing the buttons of his dress shirt as he goes. He and Oliver don’t live together, although he’s not sure why anymore. Well…he does know why. Nothing’s changed.

Oliver’s still a professional athlete. Blake’s still the personal assistant to the most powerful woman in America.

Right now he hates it. Hates America. Hates hockey. Hates his life.

He jams his legs into the wash-worn pajama bottoms he keeps here.

The orange nightlight in the bathroom reflects off the large mirror and provides plenty of light for him to brush his teeth.

A rush of heat flares in his stomach. He tosses his tooth brush into the sink. Spits out the toothpaste in his mouth. Swipes a hand across his mouth. 

He braces himself against the counter. He hates the _world_ right now. Defenseless women and children are dead. He can’t love Oliver out and proud.

He peers at his shadowed reflection, hangs his head.

He’s still there when Oliver pads into the bedroom. A warm hand comes to rest on his lower back. “Blake.” His voice is soft, questioning.

“Almost four dozen young women are dead, suffocated to death in the back of a transport truck. And why?” His throat tightens, he swallows against the thickness. “Where was the U.S.?” His voice cracks, his nose burns. “What’s the point of being the most powerful nation on earth if we can’t save women and children from unimaginable horrors?”

“I’m sorry…that’s horrible.”

“And what do I do? What good am I in the grand scheme of things? I’m useless.”

“I know it feels that way.”

Blake snorts in disgust. “I assemble binders, Oliver. Fucking _binders_.” His vehemence forces the tears stinging his eyes to slip over his lids and run down his face. He swipes them away with an angry flick of his fingers.

Oliver’s large hand cups his neck and pulls Blake back into his arms. Holds him while he cries. When the tears abate, Oliver leads him to bed and crawls in behind him, holding him close. Blake soaks up the warmth of Oliver’s large, solid body. Soaks up the soft nonsense of Oliver telling him a children’s bedtime story in Finnish. Soaks up Oliver’s love and drifts off into sleep.

* * *

Blake awakes with a start. Things are equally right and wrong. Waking up in Oliver’s bed, in his arms in never, never wrong. Except when he wakes up in Oliver’s bed at a time when he should be, at the very least, in his car on his way to work. Shit. His phone is goodness-knows-where. His coat pocket probably, which is hanging somewhere. He doesn’t remember where, but he’d bet money Oliver hung it up for him.

“Kultsi…” Oliver nuzzles the back of his neck. “…it’s time to get up. I’m sorry I didn’t think to find your phone.”

Oliver knows his alarm is always set.

“It’s fine, but I should call at least.” It’ll be the first time in two years Blake’ll be late without explicit instruction not to come in. He can’t bring himself to care. Waking up surrounded by his hot hockey boyfriend is the best medicine he could have asked for.

Oliver smacks a kiss to his shoulder. “I’ll make a quick breakfast while you call.”

Blake holds Oliver’s wrist to keep him from rolling away and out of bed. “Thank you.”

“No thanks needed. You’re my boyfriend. You’re more than that. That’s what we do. I love you, Blake.”

“I love you too.”

They both slide from the bed. Oliver trundles downstairs and Blake fishes his phone from his jacket hanging in Oliver’s extra-large closet. He can hear the surprise in Nadine’s voice, but she doesn’t question him.

*

And when the Secretary gathers her staff in her office and asks why this particular event hit them all so hard, he can answer with _most_ of his usual aplomb.


End file.
